


rest your trigger on my finger

by crookedspoon



Series: This soiled future [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham Knight, Under the Red Hood
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Anal Sex, Consent Play, Crying, F/M, POV Jason Todd, Past Joker/Harleen Quinzel, Past Sexual Abuse, Rape Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-22 16:54:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12486360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/crookedspoon
Summary: Jason is waiting for her in the dark of her apartment for a special surprise party.





	rest your trigger on my finger

**Author's Note:**

> For Day #23 "Against a wall" at Kinktober and #23 "Wishes" at Inktober for Writers.
> 
> Mind the tags, please.

Jason is flipping the knife in his grip as he waits for her. He has planned this down to the smallest detail, with a contingency for every contingency. Nothing can go wrong tonight.

It helps that he knows the ins and outs of her schedule, her habits, and the pattern to her impulsivity, because let's face it, where she's concerned, regularity regularly goes down the drain. Which is not to say that he can't predict her movements, because he can, even if it's not an exact science.

And anyway, barring some majorly unforeseen event, she'll have to come home eventually. That is where he's hiding.

She doesn't keep him waiting long. He hears her heels tap up the stairs and along the corridor before her keys jangle in the lock. There's a sway to her step; she's in a jaunty mood.

He'll surely put an end to that. He himself has his emotions tightly under wrap. It wouldn't do to let anger or disgust get in the way. He'll need a clear head for this.

She opens the door with a sigh, exhausted but content, and divests herself of her coat and shoes the moment the lock clicks behind her again.

His chance presents itself as she reaches for the light switch. He grabs her wrist and twists it behind her back, making sure the knife glints tellingly in the ambient lighting before he lets it kiss her skin.

"Not one sound from that pretty throat of yours or I'll slice it through."

His own voice sounds grating to his ears but it adds to the effect. She freezes for that one crucial moment that might otherwise have resulted in a kick to his groin (and quite possibly a slash to her neck) if he were anyone else.

"Jay?"

She nearly chokes on the name, but her hips twitch back against him, as if she still believed her compliance would make him hurt her less. Has she learned nothing?

He's of half a mind to slap her for that trained response, but drags his tongue over her skin instead, from shoulder to ear. 

"Did you miss me?"

He slams her face into the wall next to them instead of waiting for her answer.

She doesn't need to talk for this.

All she needs to do is play along.

"I'm gonna release your arm now," he says with his mouth pressed against her ear and twists a little harder to remind her how uncomfortable this is and how much better it would be for her if he let her arm go. "Same deal as before: you do anything funny, like try to escape, I slice you up. Nod if you understand."

She nods.

"Good. 'Least you still know how to behave."

She lets out a pained grunt as her arm falls to the side, but once she's worked feeling back into it, she lifts it to brace herself against the wall.

Meanwhile, he's sliding his newly unoccupied hand over her thigh. As if she'd known he'd chosen tonight to assault her like this, she's wearing a short skirt. He'd have thought the season for that to be over. But it's going to make matters that much easier.

"What do we have here?" he asks as he drags his fingers through her cooch. Her panties are so wet they might as well be nonexistent. She whimpers when he continues to stroke her through the soaked fabric.

"Don't," she pleads in a tiny voice and it's not very convincing. "Please, Jay, I've been good. I've been so good. You don't have to do this."

"Then why do I have yet to a see a single cent of all the money you've been making while I've been gone?" He pokes the tip of his knife into the underside of her jaw, careful not to draw blood just yet, and curls his fingers into her abruptly.

"I'll give it all back," she yelps, tipping her head back against his shoulder. It irks her how she grovels so easily. "I promise."

"Seems to me you need a refresher course in who owns your ass," he says and yanks her panties down. He doesn't bother with fingering her again. He just undoes his fly.

"No, please, I'm aware. I never once forgot. I'll give you everything."

"I know you will." 

He smooths back her hair to press a kiss against her temple, as she's trembling against him sweetly. It takes nothing more than hoisting her skirt for him to sink into her completely. She doesn't even struggle.

"Good, you still know when it's time to roll over."

He embeds the knife into the wall, out of her reach, since he no longer needs it to threaten her. His hands should be more than enough to subdue her should the need arise.

Holding her up by the throat, he fucks into her, pinning her against the wall with his weight. Her neck muscles work against his palm, even as her nails dig into the wallpaper.

He waits for her to wilt against him from the lack of air before he releases her again. His hands slide to her breasts, cupping and kneading them rougher than necessary. Her chest is heaving, her spine straining, her hips inviting him deeper. Her body doesn't know which sensation to chase. 

So he makes it easier for her. 

As she's busy gasping, he pulls out and nudges her other hole. Her reaction would be adorable if it weren't so easily pushed over.

"Jay, please, wait," she protests. "I'm not ready for that." Her hips twitch downward, rescinding her invitation, but her body stays where it is. Does she realize she's sending mixed signals? "I need a little more— _ah._ "

He clamps a hand over her mouth and pushes into her, invitation or no. "Don't talk back, sweetheart. It's not becoming for a whore."

He says this not to shame her, because it doesn't. It merely describes her occupation. But it's a reminder that, to him, right now, this is all she is.

Tears are streaming down her face by the time he's bottomed out. He's hurting her. He knows he's hurting her, but that is not why she's crying. She's crying to show him she's still capable of feeling and hasn't dissociated yet. 

Which doesn't mean he can't make use of it later. They've come this far. It wouldn't do to go easy on her now. That ship has sailed.

So he fucks her. 

Even as the sobs are wracking her, he continues to fuck her. 

Her forearms are pressed flat against the wall, head hanging between them as far as his grip over her mouth would allow, hips no longer jerking away from his thrusts. She knows he won't let up until he's coming gut-deep inside of her, and none of her pleas will help her get out of this any sooner.

He's close. Despite himself, his body seems to enjoy abusing hers. A rip threatens to go through his carefully crafted unfeeling veneer. He never has as much trouble keeping his emotions bottled up than when he's with her. She's just too close. And this is dancing on the knife's edge.

This isn't him.

His fingers are wet with her tears when he hauls her up.

He never wanted this to be him.

"If you insist on crying," he whispers menacingly into her ear, "at least let me give you a reason."

He underlines that statement with one last vicious jab into her, before he pulls out. Grabbing her by the shoulders, he flips her around and crashes her back into the wall.

This was a mistake. Seeing her face makes this harder. He backhands her before she can look at him, then he rams his left fist into her stomach. Even now, he's pulling his punches.

She doubles over, coughing, and he uses her imbalance to shove her to the floor. She lands on her face and hands, her back curved as if she were tucking her tail in. 

He pulls her hips back against his and she does no more than sniffle when he drives himself into her ass again. 

Fuck. He never wanted this to be him, and yet here he is, slamming choked-off groans out of her, and getting off on it, even if somewhere down below he's feeling appropriately nauseated.

It doesn't stop him from biting her neck hard enough to draw blood as he comes inside of her, or from leaving her on the floor, once he's emptied himself.

She curls around herself as far as the pain in her body allows, crying softly to herself, and he doesn't know if he's more disgusted with her or with himself.

He needs a shower. Whatever she might need now, bringing distance between him and what he's done just now is the first order of business. Else he might do some serious harm, to either of them.

He heads for the bathroom and washes off her fear and his lust for it. There's no scrubbing off the dirty feeling inside, however, so he doesn't try. He's lived with it for so long, it's almost become a second skin.

Harley is still lying curled up where he left her, staring at some indeterminate point in the mid-distance.

She stops shaking when he drapes her heated bathrobe over her and places a hand on her shoulder – reassuring this time, not threatening.

"How are you?" he asks softly, scooping her up and dabbing at her cheeks with a warm washcloth.

She just nods jerkily before she breaks out crying again. She throws her arms around him and hugs him so tight he nearly loses his balances. He wraps his arms around her in turn and rocks her gently.

"You're fine," he soothes and rubs her back. "It's over. Let it all out."

Even as he says this, he wonders if he is fine. He's always considered himself a pro, roleplay never triggers him, but this may have affected him more than he'd care to admit.

She clings to him for several long moments more, trying to calm down, while he's stroking her hair and whispering reassurances. He doesn't know for whose benefit he's whispering these things. He might need her to whisper them right back.

Finally, she takes his face into both hands and kisses him, deeply, desperately. It's like an outpouring of all the feelings he's been denying himself – fear, hatred, love, anger, shame, regret – but also like a benediction, like she's allowing him to open up and have them again.

He takes a shaky breath. He can't break down now, too, even if his feelings are trying to claw themselves out of him. He has to piece her back together first.

"What do you need?" he asks, wiping the tears from her cheeks and chin with his washcloth.

When she laughs quietly, it almost sounds like another sob. He's confused when she shakes her head.

"I mean it," he prompts again.

"I'm okay," she says, definitely not sounding okay.

"Glad to hear it. I'm still not leaving your side until you tell me what you need."

She smiles then, and he might actually call that one genuine. "Just you. A warm bed." She shrugs. "Cuddles?"

"Anything else?"

"Let's start there."

"Sure." He attempts a smile himself, but it's like he's forgotten how that works. A frown has etched itself into his face instead. "Wanna walk yourself or do you want me to carry you?"

She tries to suppress a grimace but not before he's caught it. "I'm sure I can't walk now," she says it lightly, with a laugh at the end to round it off, make it sound like a jest, like it's not his fault at all.

He picks her up without another word and she nestles her face against his shoulder, absently tracing the many scars criss-crossing his chest with her fingertips. Her unshakable trust in him baffles him sometimes. He can hurt her like this and she considers it a sign of his love.

Perhaps, in some screwed up way, it is. It's nothing he did lightly, after all, or would ever be able to grow used to. 

Perhaps that is why she asked. Because she trusted him enough to let him hurt her like this in the first place. Because he is not the type to enjoy this. Because knowing that, he'd be able to break it off the moment she told him to stop, because he wouldn't ignore her safeword under any circumstance.

Still, he's not sure how to feel about it. He's had enough time to go over this idea in his head after she's walked him through this scenario, but carrying it out is a whole other deal.

It's only now that he's no longer pretending to be someone else that her pained cries and whimpers slip through the cracks. Those were real, even if the situation was not, and Harley might say she's okay, but how could he tell, really? She's made hiding her pain from him an art form and has never complained where he could hear, because she doesn't want to worry him.

He lays her down on her bed like something fragile before crawling in with her and burying them under the covers. There's some rearranging of limbs before they can both settle in. She sinks into his arms like a weight into the ocean.

"Thank you, by the way," she murmurs and presses a kiss to his collarbone. "You made it sound so real, like it was really him."

He waves it off, not wanting to talk about this any longer. "Not like I haven't heard the same a million times."

"I'm sorry for making you go through this again."

"I told you, it's fine." 

But is it? The one thing Jason has ever been afraid of is turning out like the person who condemned them to this life walking the streets. So far, he's managed not to tread in his footsteps, but Harley had asked him to impersonate him, to make her relive the horror she had felt under him. For some reason, it reminded her of how far she's come without him, how she'd clawed her way out and how that is a thing to be cherished.

Jason lives with those days embedded in his memories, but just because he can't forget them, doesn't mean he wants to be reminded of what he's lived through. Her presence in his life is trigger enough on bad days.

It wasn't pretty, but at least it's over. 

"Just, thanks. This was the best surprise party anyone's ever thrown for me."

Jason scoffs. "You need to work on your definition of party."

"Nah, I'm good," she says and nuzzles closer.

"Happy anniversary, you crazy woman. Next year I'm getting you some dumb gift certificate or take you to dinner."

He can feel her grin against him. "Only if he's still in lockup. Otherwise there won't be much reason to celebrate."

"Don't worry about any of that," he says and hugs her close. "I'm gonna keep you safe."

"I know." She rubs her thumb over the deep furrow of his frown and kisses him unhurriedly. "Now tell me what it is you need."

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Pushit" by Tool.
> 
> [Likes, reblogs](https://crookedspoonfic.tumblr.com/post/167202345980/wip-week-day-6-previously-unpublished-wip%20), kudos and stuff would be stellar!


End file.
